


Blue Christmas

by sksdwrld



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, M/M, Parallels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-12
Updated: 2013-12-12
Packaged: 2018-01-08 01:28:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1126794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sksdwrld/pseuds/sksdwrld
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry and Draco experience the first Christmas after the war. For all that they are different, they are the same</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blue Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Writcraft](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writcraft/gifts).



Christmas at the manor had always been an extravagant affair. The house elves would decorate floor to ceiling with white faerie lights, an abundance of greenery interspersed with red and white winter-blooms and delicate silver filigree throughout. The air was rich with pine, cinnamon and sugar, and rife with hearty laughter from Father's business associates or the soft giggles from Mother's circle of friends.

When Draco had been young, he and the other children had run throughout the manor, overindulged on seasonal treats, bubbling with the excitement of Yule. Parents and guests would shake their heads, laugh, and move aside to let the throng of spoilt children by.

As Draco and his peers grew into young adults, there had been party games, innocent kisses, and sips stolen from the spiked punchbowl accompanied by indulgent and knowing smiles from whatever grown-ups happened to be nearby. Thoughts of the war were abandoned in favor of frippery and celebration.

Now that the war had come to pass and everyone's lives were in ruin, Draco couldn't fathom why his parents clung so tightly to tradition. The gathering rooms of the manor were sparsely adorned with drying pine boughs and smattered with wilting poinsettias. The conjured faerie lights flickered sadly and the silver ornaments tarnished as the evening wore on. Those who were not dead or imprisoned had arrived with haunted looks and suspicious glances over their shoulders. They congregated in small groups, clinging tightly to their brandy snifters and flasks and whispered amongst themselves.

Somewhere behind him, Pansy clung to Zabini and Goyle, a shattered debutante. Draco stood at the window with his back to them all. He had done everything that everyone had asked of him and now that everything was said and done...after the whole thing had literally gone up in flames, he wanted nothing to do with any of them.

On the ground was a blanket of snow. It was beautiful and clean, fresh and untouched, virginal and pure. It was everything that Draco was not and could never be again. It was a reminder of one of the many reasons that Potter would never look at him the way he looked at Ginevra.

Draco couldn't even understand why he wanted that. Were he less pragmatic, he might tell himself that it was a self-preservationist goal: restore the family name by rubbing elbows with the savior. But the truth was that he could give a fig about the family name. It had done nothing good for him in life thus far and he didn't owe it anything.

No, this sudden interest had more to do with the the way his thighs had pressed into the backs of Potter's, the hardness of the broomstick they shared a crude allegory for what Draco preferred pressing into his backside. Draco had felt the staccato burst of Potter's heart beneath his fingers. He had shared Potter's breath, breathing in what Potter exhaled. Draco was not even good enough for Potter's cast-off air. Draco was nothing, the enemy. Draco was the picture of defeat.

And yet, Draco wanted Potter, dreamed about him, and craved him with an ache that could not be soothed with meaningless words.

Draco had seen Potter's face, stony and impassive; he had seen it furled in battle-rage, he had seen it twisted in anguish, he had seen it full of desperate terror. He had seen it upturned in disdain and he had even seen the flicker of pity. From afar, Draco had seen Potter's face alight with happiness, but never had that look been trained on him. And it never would be.

***

Christmas had never been particularly meaningful for Harry. After cooking and cleaning for the Dursley's Christmas feast, he had been relegated to his cupboard where the muffled sounds of joyous revelry only served to embitter him.

At Hogwarts, Harry's holidays had been happier than he'd ever experienced before but were nevertheless tainted by the reminder that had no family with which to share it. Ron had always been a sport, keeping him company and regaling him with fairy tales and stories from his youth, but Harry might've preferred to spend the day in quiet remembrance of those he'd never really known but desperately missed.

As a young man, Harry had spent his Christmases alternately in hiding from Voldemort and his followers and desperately seeking out Tom Riddle's horcruxes. Although spending Christmas Eve in Godric's Hollow had been the closest thing he'd had to spending the holiday with his parents, it wasn't enough. It would never be enough.

Now that the war was over, Harry wasn't sure what to do with himself. He was no longer welcome at the Dursley's, and wouldn't have cared if he was. He was no longer a student of Hogwarts, which was in shambles anyway. Harry had been invited to the Weasley's, but they would be mourning their first Christmas without Fred, and Harry couldn't face them, knowing that he was as much to blame for the loss as Augustus Rookwood. He sat before the fireplace in the sitting room at 12 Grimmauld and pretended that the ghosts of those he had lost surrounded him. Perhaps across the veil, his father and mother were dancing together, and Sirius watched while Remus and Tonks played chess. Fred, Cedric and Colin were pulling pranks on Professor Snape while Headmaster Dumbledore looked on with a fond smile and warm socks, Hedwig on his shoulder and Dobby at his side.

But that imagery did nothing to lift his spirits. Harry found himself wondering what Malfoy, of all people, was up to. He seriously doubted that Draco was planning anything nefarious; not with the way his family was facing persecution from the Ministry. He wondered if Malfoy's Christmas was shaping up to be as miserable and lonely as his own, or if by some miracle, he was enjoying himself, perhaps frolicking unbidden in the newly fallen snow, or perhaps taking to the skies in the crisp, winter air.

Harry had been thinking a lot of Malfoy lately. Of course, he had always kept Malfoy in his peripheral consideration, but lately he was less concerned with potential nefarious plots and more occupied with the memory of how Malfoy had felt, molded to his back as they fled the fiendfyre. He could still remember the clutch of Malfoy's arms around his waist and the way he could feel the reedy beat of Malfoy's heart against his back.

Harry couldn't imagine that Malfoy would ever look at him with anything but contempt. Those mercurial eyes would never turn to him in cool appraisal or settle over him in amusement the way they had with Parkinson, or even Zabini.

Still, Harry thought, he might have had the slightest chance, if he had taken that hand in friendship so many years ago. Harry wondered how things might have been different for the two of them, and if it was realistic to think there might be something yet. He swallowed the last of his tea, bitter with the dregs, and laughed to himself, wondering if the historians would ever know about the Christmas that Harry Potter pined for Draco Malfoy.


End file.
